


Now I Lay Me Down

by dellastarr



Category: 12 Monkeys (TV)
Genre: 12 Monkeys Series, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26765695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dellastarr/pseuds/dellastarr
Summary: James Cole is recruited to the West VII
Relationships: James Cole/Deacon
Kudos: 2





	Now I Lay Me Down

Time, once, turned the keys to begin the world spinning and the set the cycle of the sun rising.  
Time, turned the skies blue and the trees green.  
Then, time raged, turning the skies red and the leaves scarlet, a warning.  
An end, a plague where brothers fight, side by side before love was spoken.  
That time is no more.  
Now only desolation, despair, a moment trapped when things should have worked out, but didn’t.  
Brothers, lovers, soldiers lost to time.

No early spring afternoons, a chill in the air, wildflowers beginning to bloom in a meadow.  
Instead, the wolfish cold biting as you race across a barren lot, frantically fleeing, doing what you need to survive.  
You’ve lain down your humanity along with your sensitivity to the cold.  
The animal fights for the next breath.   
The wolf snarling, barring its teeth in frightful defense.

Deacon watched from the edge of the treeline. He couldn’t take his eyes off the youth scouting the perimeter of the abandoned building. It was apparent this feral boy was starving. His eyes sunken, his thin frame dwarfed beneath the orange down jacket. Deacon knew that look. Desperation, someone willing to do whatever it takes to make it through another day. Hunger, just one of the signs. He was sure that the boy didn’t sleep through the night. How could he? Sleep was giving in to the inevitability of resignation. Yet there was something in those eyes that told Deacon that he wasn’t going to give up, not yet. Question was, could he fit into the West VII?

Would the boy do what needs to be done to live another hour, survive another night? Would he be ruthless and not look back? Could he join a pack or is he just a lone hunter? Is he indeed, a boy? Boy implies innocence, yet this youthful face no longer conveyed innocence. There was a past behind the eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, known too much pain, felt the stab of regret, perhaps even guilt. Would he hesitate in that crucial moment between life and death—a remaining vestige of empathy or callous determination to deal the final blow? 

Deacon found himself wagering, betting on the boy’s better nature, to prove him wrong. Deacon would move on. Ultimately, he’d find that one, a hollow man, who would strike without remorse and take what was hidden in a pocket, abandoning the last ragged breath? 

The man-child was wielding his lead pipe, raising it above his head, then lowering the blow to strike, the red stain seeping into the snow, glistening scarlet for the briefest of moments. The Silent Assailant, fleeing with his prize, never looking back at the man dying on the ground or the woman screaming beside. 

This was someone that Deacon could use. Cold, ruthless, willing to do what it takes. He followed, cautious and ready to do what he needed for the sake of the West VII. The young man never looked back, didn’t flinch or rethink his decision to strike. Following as the aggressor searched for a place to pass the night. He disappeared into another abandoned building—West VII territory. By rights, Deacon had him. 

As the contents of the bag were rooted through, Deacon watched as despair set upon the boy who was, upon closer inspection, no boy. All this and no food. 

“All that for a bag of junk,” another voice spoke from an open doorway.

It startled the boy and he reacted by sheer instinct.

Deacon stayed in the shadows to see what would happen.

The two spoke. The older, offering a “trade” with an anonymous can of beans, leftovers from a raid or hand out. 

“Chili on a chilly day,” Deacon snickered at his own joke. He didn’t dare come any closer for fear of discovery.

The boy couldn’t be more than 25. The better trade might have been that wool coat and gloves, but neither were offered. Their short conversation ending abruptly and when Deacon looked again, it was as if the man in the great coat had vanished. Leaving the other to shiver, leaning against a wall for protection. Deacon thought of those Victorian homeless who were tied to a bench or wall to keep them from falling forward. He was sure he saw that in a comic once. 

Deacon stood in the doorway as the other had, believing he had the advantage of the moment. But he knew, this one didn’t really sleep, that would be a sign of weakness. No one to trust, to watch over, to allow yourself to sleep. Deacon remembered his brother. They’d shared a room once in the world before this hell. Two boys protecting each other from the demon in their house. Two who would listen and hide. Though, Deacon was the older, the big brother, who had to remain vigilant during the dark hours when their father would come home on a tear, yelling and making his presence known. 

Deacon wanted to be Protector. He wanted to be the hero of the story. Truth was, he was too weak to… His pity got the best of him watching this one struggle to sleep. This was his window.  
Before Deacon could take more than a few steps closer, the boy was on his feet with a blade in his hand, a rabid dog, ready to fight for any scrap he had.

“What are you doing here?” Deacon asked.

The boy said nothing, crouched ready to pounce, fight, or flee.

“I’m not here to take anything from you like that other bloke. What’s your name?” Deacon asked, lowering his knife.

He didn’t answer, but quickly scanned the room. “What is this? A bloody terminal?”

“What’s your name?” Deacon asked again.

“Why don’t you tell me yours first,” he said, not relaxing a single muscle.

“Deacon. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

“Deacon? The Scav King of the West VII?”

“You have heard of me! I knew I had a reputation.”

“Bullshit!” the boy answered. “What’d you want?”

"You.”

“Me? I don’t have anything the West VII wants.”

“Oh contraire. You have exactly what we want.” 

The boy raised his knife a little higher, gripping the handle.

“You going to tell me your name?” Deacon could see the shadow of death on the boy’s face. “The West VII has food and a few creature comforts. I think you need both. A little warmth, warm food, a drink to warm your bones, a warm fire beside a warm bed.”

“Is that what you want? Creature comforts?”

“Want? I want a trade.”

“Everyone wants a trade tonight.” 

“I’ve been…. watching. Your skills, we can always use another fighter, a place in our little band of brothers.”

Deacon could see the haunted man, (for that was what he was, as Deacon inched closer, he could see the ravages on the young face)—draw back into his thoughts, but only for a split second.

“Don’t come any closer!” he warned, brandishing his knife.

“Hear me out, man. You could say no to my little offer and in a day or two, we’ll come harvest your body along with that stiff you left in the snow out there to bleed out.”

“You saw that?”

“Consider it your interview.”

The boy didn’t answer. Deacon stepped forward one step, his knife poised to strike. 

“We could fight it out and I drag you back or you could stand up and follow.”

“You’re not the kind of person who turns their back to you.”

“See,” Deacon smiled, “we understand each other all ready.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Good. I don’t trust anyone, either. I’m offering... well, you can decide what I’m offering.” Deacon held his ground and slowly the boy lowered his knife.

“Cole.”

“Cole,” Deacon repeated. “You alone, Cole?”

Cole didn’t answer.

“We could sleep a few hours or start out for the West VII now. I don’t know about you, but I don’t really sleep. We’d be warmer walking. Shall we, Cole?”

Cole scanned the room, the snow starting to fall. “Fine.” 

Five feet apart, they began walking. Cole never putting down his weapon.

The walk was hours to the camp, but Deacon had to keep his wits about him or this man would turn on him as quick as any fox.

They didn’t talk and when the lights of the camp grew faint in the distance, Cole stopped. 

“You really West VII?”

“Did you think I was lying? When we come off this ridge, you will need to stop brandishing that blade or my men will take you out before you could call out for help. When I tell you, I’ll expect you to wait for me and I’ll bring you into the fold, so to speak.”

*********

Cole didn’t trust him. That was apparent. 

Deacon walked on and disappeared. Cole sat on the cold ground, the sky starting to lighten as the night bled away. It was these moments that Cole remembered Ramse. They had been brothers once, but Ramse chose her over him and left him to fend for himself. “Maybe this is way it should be, in league with the Scav King,” he muttered to himself.

Deacon returned with two guards and a girl. “This is Max, she’s going to look at that cut on your face.”

Cut? What cut? Cole followed the group into the camp. Only a few people were milling around, most still asleep in their tents. Sleep was nearly unheard of. Sleeping is when you’re most vulnerable. The idea of feeling safe enough to sleep was more enticing than filling his belly.

“I have something for you to eat,” Max offered, leading him into a warm tent, a lantern giving off a soft yellow light. “Sit down and I’ll bring it and then I’ll look at that cut.”

“And who the hell are you?” Cole barked.

“I am the one who scouted and found you in the first place. You and that other one. What happened to him? Did he run home to mommy?”

“Shut the hell up,” Cole shouted.

“Ooo, a nerve. Well, eat this and let me look at that cut.”

“What is this?” 

“Something that will fill your belly and not crash your system. Just eat it.”

It was gray in the half light, but Cole ate it greedily.

“Enough for tonight. Now let me see that gash.” She had a wet cloth and dabbed at his head. 

Cole jerked away. “Hey!”

“Stop being such a baby. You telling me that this hurts? Please.” She continued to clean the wound. “There’s a goose egg on your forehead. I’m surprised you don’t have a headache.” She noticed a blood stain on his shirt. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?” 

“Take off your shirt. This is coming from somewhere.” She poked at the bloody spot on his side. 

Cole winced.

Scars and ribs showing. “You’re dying Cole. It’s a good thing Deacon and the West VII found you or the Reaper would have recruited you instead.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t get an infection from this.”

Ramse had always taken care of these kinds of things. Cole wasn’t going to confide anything to this girl. 

“I’ll get you some clean… well, cleaner clothes. Take these off.”

Cole stared back. 

“Just to let you know, I’m not giving any of these back. I’m burning them.” Max stitched up the wound and staunched the blood. 

Cole steeled himself for the suture. He took pain like a stone. Ramse said that to him once after they’d come across a scav gang. To Cole, pain was something you disconnect, like a soldier. Pain focuses your resolve. Pain is a reminder of being in the now. 

“Take a bath and I’ll come back with clothes for you to wear.” She picked up the pile of rags and left a naked Cole in the tent alone beside a metal tub of lukewarm water. 

He stepped into the tepid water and crouched, starting to wash up. The water felt cold to the touch of his body. Was he fighting off a fever? 

Max didn’t return with clothes.

“She’s not coming back anytime soon.” a voice from the shadows said.

Cole turned, wishing he had his knife.

“Calm down. I just came in to offer a little warmth with what’s left of this night. You and I both deserve a little rest, don’t you think?”

Deacon scooted over on the bunk and patted the space next to him. “At least listen to my offer. And then you can decide for yourself.” 

Cole dropped the rag into the water with a splash. 

Deacon reached out, beckoning him to the bunk. “Would you be more comfortable if I were naked too?”

Cole didn’t say a word. “Is this the price?” he asked.

“I’m only saying, I’m offering you a little peace and rest.” Deacon walked him over to the bunk, urging him to sit, before stretching out on the bunk behind Cole. Deacon lay a hand on Cole's shoulder. “Just lay down and sleep. I’ll keep watch.” Deacon crooned.

Cole sat in the pale darkness, the lantern still burning. 

“Lay back, close your eyes. Sleep.” Deacon whispered.

Cole tried to control his breathing. He wished his head hurt more, he could concentrate on the pain. 

The hand was gently pulling him back. “Close your eyes, Cole. Sleep, even for a few minutes.”

Deacon was guiding him to lay back, positioning his head on Deacon’s arm. “I don’t know any lullabies. Close your eyes.”

Cole stared at the tub of water, the flickering of the lantern light, the scarcity of objects in the room coming into focus as his eyes adjusted in the dark.

Deacon didn’t force him, didn’t pull him closer, didn’t touch him, but he could feel his breath on his neck.

Every soft spoken word, a brush of warm air on this neck. Cole fought to keep his eyes open, but he ached to sleep. He wanted his knife. 

Cole was surrounded by the quiet of the tent, the warmth of Deacon at his back, the smell of the room lulling him into sleep until he unwillingly, unknowiningly gave in.

When he woke, Deacon was gone. A pile of clean clothes lay beside him on a chair. The lantern out. The tub of water gone. What had happened? Had he imagined Deacon there? Had he wanted him there? Cole thought of Ramse and how they had been on cold nights, huddled together to fight off the unforgiving nights. Cole was sure he had imagined the whole thing. Passed out, hallucinated.

He dressed and searched the room for his knife. It was nowhere. 

“Looking for this?” Max said, holding out the knife, sheathed in a small leather holder. “Had someone clean and sharpen it for you? Honestly, couldn’t cut hot butter.”

“Excuse me?” Cole said, taking the knife. It had indeed been cleaned. He touched the edge with his thumb, blood welled. 

“Didn’t believe me? Here, put some of this on before you need stitches again.”

He wrapped his thumb in the cloth she held out. “I don’t think the West VII is for me. I’ll be leaving.”

“Breakfast first?” She’d arrived with real food, of sorts. “Deacon said you get double rations until you get your strength back. Forgot your name, though.” 

“Cole,” he said looking at the egg and the few root vegetables. 

“We raided some outpost. Scouts found another one. Deacon said you have a place with the West VII if you want it. If not, take your leave after you eat.”

He ate, without looking up.

“You could bunk with me,” she offered. “Hope you don’t mind sharing, only have the one cot.”

“Sorry to break up the welcoming committee Max, but what did our rabid dog decide to do?" Deacon popped his head into the tent. "Either he’s coming on the raiding party or he’s refusing our hospitality and leaving the West VII quadrant.”

Cole finished up the last scraps of food. Food, a deciding factor. 

Max smiled at Deacon. “He’s staying but not going on this raid, maybe tomorrow. He needs his rest right now.”


End file.
